A Stranger Comes Home
by Mirrordance
Summary: He had sent Rivendell his finest bowman, his best warrior - his son. After the War of the Ring, he's not sure what he's about to get back. Thranduil ponders the imminent homecoming of Legolas, and wonders if their time away has made them into complete strangers
1. A Stranger Comes Home

Title: A Stranger Comes Home

Summary: He had sent Imladris his finest bowman, his best warrior - his son. After the War, he's not sure what he's about to get back. Thranduil ponders the imminent homecoming of Legolas

 **Hello everyone!** So ten years after my last post for LOTR ("For Every Evil 3"), Lee Pace and Orlando Bloom's take on two beloved characters in _The Hobbit_ films draw me back with a one-shot (whether for just this one fic or a few others, I am not yet sure). It crawled into my mind and wouldn't depart until pen was put to paper. Hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it:

* * *

A Stranger Comes Home

* * *

He's been gone awhile, but had recently written he is last on the long road home.

He'd gone to Imladris a messenger and fine bowman, my best warrior (not quite the best soldier, however – too much initiative). I know who he was when he left, but I find myself uncertain who I am about to get in return.

The length of time we have been apart is negligible to the Undying, but I wonder if the War has still somehow crafted us into strangers, fighting as we have been in dramatically different fronts.

My son's legend has grown great amongst the varied people of Middle Earth amidst all this, and word of his daring reach me often. My subjects speak to me of what they hear on the road, in some misplaced belief the tales of Legolas' feats would please me. I listen and confess to some pride rising in my heart, but this is quickly eclipsed by doubt and terror.

Doubt because I cannot parcel fact from the fantastic- surely the tale of single-handedly felling _mumakil_ is fabrication, at the very least – and terror because if these tales prove true, what risks he's taken. What dangers he's seen, and mostly without his kin behind him.

The tales must be false. They must be false because the very thought of him standing before the worst ills of the world either alone or with his paltry band of miscellaneous fellows brings a hollow sensation in my stomach.

I am not the only one displeased with my son's legend.

The diplomats, soldiers and traders of my kin get the occasional complaint from foreign lands. Not everyone is grateful for what they perceive as the barest of the elves' assistance in the War. They do not thank us for sending Legolas. They ask why we did not send in more of him.

How the War could have ended sooner, they said, How the losses could have been much less…

What they cannot grasp is the changed nature of how to win that particular War. They also fail to see that they overestimate elves. There are far fewer of us now and amongst these, even fewer warriors. These warriors, in turn, are already worked to the ground and spread thin in defense of our own lands and peoples. Most importantly, of these few, there is no one quite like the elf I'd sent to Elrond's house.

 _Singularly creative_ , his trainers had told me when he was younger, a statement that would only be echoed by those who commanded him and worked with him and eventually for him, as he rose up in rank hungrily, as if it were not his birthright to rule. _Singularly creative_ … it was always said with awe and dispassion.

He was one of our most skilled warriors - adept at arrows, knives, swords and hand combat – and he had a strategic mind built for command. But these were the barest of his gifts. He could turn anything into a tool of war and this I've seen for myself or have heard reported with accuracy – a barrel, the head of a dwarf, a shield, a rope, a strand of spider's web, a crumbling tower…

 _Elbereth,_ I realize now there must be some truth to that _mumakil_ story after all. I feel that pit in my stomach again, and it is with some resigned annoyance that I know it will ease only when I see snatches of my son's golden head amidst the lush leaves of my verdant trees again.

I sigh impatiently, and I feel the guards and advisors around me stiffen in anticipation of my rising temper.

"He is expected any moment now, King Thranduil," they tell me, and I ignore their assurances in favor of glowering at the narrow walkway Legolas would soon traverse to return to me.

"Perhaps the King might want to retire to chambers, and the Prince may then be sent for—" attempted another. I raise my hand to silence him, and the rest of his unwelcome suggestions fade into nothingness.

I feel my subjects' collective relief when Legolas suddenly comes into view, as if the forest simply opened up for him. He walks at the head of a column, flanked by our soldiers. I hold my ground and wait as they stalk forward soundlessly, eating away at our distance.

Before I could speak to welcome him home, Legolas bows before me formally, and by habit I return the gesture. When he lifts his head to look me in the eye, I see a softness there I've never seen before.

I do not recognize him.

* * *

His strangeness bothers me.

I carry the unease through the formalities of his return – reports, debriefings, an exchange of gifts and messages from dignitaries of territories he'd passed on the way home, a small celebratory meal – and the rest of my own mountainous work for the day. It is not until I retire for the night that I have the opportunity to see him alone and therefore delve into what this could mean.

I push open the doors to his suite of rooms, and I catch him doing yet another unexpected thing.

Legolas sits upon a bench by raging firelight, back to me. He is down to boots and breeches, stooped over some preoccupation I cannot yet see. His long, beautiful golden hair is gathered in an unseemly knot behind his head, barely held together by a ragged string.

I am distracted from this unconventional, un-Elvish, un-royal, displeasing style only by how it shows off my son's arresting physique. His shoulders are broader than I remembered, and the thick, hard muscles of his lightly glistening back and arms coil with even the smallest movement.

Bodies are built according to use. It is why the general figure of warriors differ from those who do not fight, and why the bodies of swordsmen and archers and all other types of soldiers differ from each other. My son, it seems, have acquired a touch of brawler in him. He is literally disarmed, but I have never seen him look so formidable. It is such a stark contrast from the softness I earlier spotted in his eyes.

I step forward, and if he knows I am here he still does not bother to acknowledge me.

"Perhaps I should have knocked," I open, as I come up beside him. I still cannot see what occupies him so, with his head and the now-considerable bulk of his right arm obscuring my view.

He lifts his head to me then, and there is gentle laughter in his eyes when he says, "Thranduil need not knock before any door in Thanduil's Halls."

I feel a corner of my lip turn up in a tight smile, but the expression diminishes quickly when I finally catch sight of what he's been doing, and why there is a slight sheen to his pale skin.

His chest is a mottled mess of cuts and bruises set in shades of purple, pink and red. They startle me, but what makes me catch my breath is the sight of two crossed wounds over the side of his heart, and a long gash stretching from one side of his belly to beneath his shoulder. It is deep at the stomach and shallower near the top, and I imagine my son struck and still dodging away. I imagine my son struck. I imagine my son struck. I imagine my son barely on his feet in a field of battle far, far away from me.

Those who hurt him offend me. His wounds are an affront. They are unacceptable. I stiffen and feel my chest rising up in gathered anger, quelled only when he raises a regal hand up to calm me.

"The enemy is long dead and I am healing," he assures me confidently.

My anger redirects itself. "Which incompetent healers let you travel thus? And why would you force it? You know better than this, Legolas. I am gravely disappointed. You should have said something. Why would you hide this from me?"

"I've not been careless and I wasn't hiding," Legolas said evenly. His artless calm is making me inexplicably twice as mad. "It is well tended, you see?"

I glare at him, and he looks at me pointedly while motioning vaguely at the miscellany of things laid beside him, things I did not notice until that moment. There was a bowl of steaming, clear water, a collection of herbs and salves, and tools including small, gleaming blades and pincers. My eyes rake back over the wounds, and see that they not puckered or red with fresh bleeding or infection and they are just as he says – healing.

"I sought help when I needed it," he said carefully, "I've rested and traveled only when I was able. I did not hide from you, I did not even attempt to conceal myself when I heard you come in."

I scowled at him. "There is still no excuse for failing to speak of this. You are no healer to be able to continue tending it on your own."

He grins at that. "I've learned a few things while away, Father. Some trifles the overburdened healers of a large battle have no time to handle, after all." He points to a fading, barely noticeable scar on his collarbone, and at the crossed scars over his heart. "These for instance, I've done myself. You barely see anything, do you, Father?"

He says this with pride, and the sense of achievement heavy in his eyes stay my anger only by a hair. There had been a knife against my son's neck, close enough to cut him. There had been a knife against my son's neck. There had been a knife against my son's neck.

"There is no reason why you should not have gone to the healers immediately upon your arrival here," I snap. "There is peace upon the realm and nothing occupies their attention, not that it should have ever been an issue even when all that ails the Prince is a pinprick."

He smiles at me beatifically as if I were a beloved but recalcitrant child, and I would shake that calm condescension out of him if only I can be guaranteed of not harming him further.

"I happily welcome a healer if it eases the mind of the King," my son says easily as he turns away from me and back to his task, "but they can do nothing for me that I am not already doing for myself."

I set my jaws in displeasure but narrow my eyes in thought. I realize the uncertainties of our reunion was put behind us in favor of my displeasure and the consequent scolding. The antagonism by which we sometimes regard each other can be so unhealthily convenient. But at least the ice has been broken.

I walk a wide berth around him and stop at an angle where nothing can escape my notice. I watch him work. His hands are steady and sure as they begin to snip away at the stitches for removal, though I suspect some discomfort from how his brows glisten in sweat. I bite my tongue and watch where he wants to take this and how far.

"You are right about one thing," he says in a conciliatory tone. He does not lift his head at me from his work. "There is no good reason why I should not have gone to the healers upon arriving here, even for a cursory check. In truth, I had meant to."

"What kept you from doing so?"

He shakes his head, and I am unsure what it means. At first I believe it is to deny me an answer, but his fuller response indicates it is more due to displeasure in himself.

"I confess I was uncertain about my welcome here." He hesitates with me for the first time since his return. "I left my home when it was besieged. I was not here to fight for my King. I was not here to fight alongside my people."

"They hold with pride your place in the larger War, Legolas," I promise him, "They do not fault you for your absence in smaller battles. You can hardly be expected everywhere."

"Nevertheless," he goes on, "I arrived and instead of wary unwelcome, everyone seemed pleased and happy and victorious and I felt no desire to, to change the celebratory mood. I did not want to disappoint anyone."

I frown in confusion. "The reports and the meetings and celebrations could have waited, my son. It would hardly have been a bother, much less a disappointment."

"It wasn't for the schedule, Father," Legolas said. "I… I cannot explain it well. I feel as if… hm. I cannot explain it well."

I wait quietly for him to try, and with an exasperated sigh he finds words.

"During the War," he shared as he pulled at the short, thin strands of cut stitches on his wounds, "Elven injury seemed - that is to say, the people…" He growls at himself part in dissatisfaction, and part in pain. He reaches for a salve and wipes it over his wound with a clean cloth.

"Why do these things sting more with stitches coming off than going in, eh?" he asks with some humor. I do not find it funny, because I know the answer. The pain of acquiring stitches must have paled in comparison to the traumatic injury that had necessitated it. My son was probably either in shock, in deep, unimaginable pain, unconscious, or drugged to the gills shortly after he was struck. No picture amongst these can offer a father any hint of comfort or humor.

Legolas continues with freeing himself from the threads, and more or less continues where he left off too. "I had the impression it disappointed them. When I took hurt, I mean. I saw it in their eyes."

My hand drifts to my cheek, at the scars real and carried in the heart, carefully concealed there.

"It is the converse of," he continues with a small grunt as he readjusts his grip and posture, "it is the exact converse of how they looked when elves came in large numbers to aid Rohan at Helm's Deep. As if they could win. Seeing elves in weakness… well, it must be very disappointing indeed. But I suppose if anyone can understand that, it would be you."

I let my hand fall from my face, and am relieved he didn't catch me touching the old wound. Yes, I know quite a bit about hiding weakness. I know quite a bit about the necessity of putting up a strong, winning front to protect the hopes of a people flailing in the mess of war, caught in a shrinking territory slowly encroached upon by a nearly-invincible enemy.

I've just never been on the other end of the show – an audience to my own son's pretenses, his carefully-constructed tableau of strength and victory.

I sigh in resignation. "Well you've certainly accomplished what you set out to do. Your people hold their Prince in high esteem, and your triumphant, apparently unscathed return after tousling with _mumakil_ must mean you are invincible indeed."

He winces in either embarrassment or another stinging pain or both, but he laughs quietly. He puts down his tools and wipes a different set of salves and herbs on his wounds before reaching for a fresh set of bandages. He slaps one almost dispassionately on his injury, and angles to wrap them in a long strip of slim, binding cloth.

"I will help with that," I tell him, booking no argument. I reach forward but he shies away.

"Wash your hands first, my King."

It is both tease and honest instruction – he really has acquired a healer's habits - and I click my tongue at him but do as I am told. After I wipe my hands dry, I kneel in front of him and wind the binding cloths about his chest and back. He lifts his arms with a grunt and a grimace – his ribs have taken injury too, I realize – but he manages to keep them raised as I pass the cloths across his chest, around his back, and again and again several times.

I feel the weight of my anger and worry lessen as I do the repetitive task. I repair my son and repair myself. But as my ease grows, my son's physical discomfort increases. We stand close together, and I can see the sweat beading on his brow and over his lips. I can see fine tremors occasionally coming over him. He hangs his head low, but with his hair out of the way I can see his eyes are closed and his lips pressed together. His leg is shaking in repressed energy. He is near spent from travel, our long day and the discomfort of lingering injury.

"I have my own confession to make," I murmur, and as his leg stills and he puts his body under better control, I believe I have his attention.

"I wasn't sure how it would be between us upon your return," I tell him. "But I will tell you from the eyes of a father – you get to know your child in bits and pieces, and they will always surprise you."

"I don't understand," Legolas says quietly.

"It was a delight watching you grow," I say. "When you bring a child into the world you do not know what kind of a person they would become. Life happens and it changes and builds them, little by little. As your child makes his way in the world, you will meet them again and again.

"I've met different iterations of you so many times, Legolas," I say, "I've met you as an innocent child. I've met you without your mother. I've met you after your first grievous wound. I've met you as a hungry, eager young soldier training for war. I've met you after your first patrols, your first lethal enemy encounters, the times you realized the gravity of our situation. I've met you as a competent leader, and I've met you in victories and defeat. I've met you when you've learned to be casually ruthless and cold to your enemies. I've met you compassionate and heartbroken.

"When you left," I go on into my son's silence, "I thought we've both grown old enough that you will cease changing. But I've heard so many things about you that I knew you would return a different elf yet again."

I finish binding his wounds, and he exhales in relief when he lowers his arms. He looks up at me with his impossibly clear, blue eyes.

"So what do you think?" he asks, and again it is part-tease and part something else. It was an earnest question.

I marvel at him anew. At his body, which has become a veritable specimen for war. At his easy humor. At the vulnerability in his tone and in his gaze. At his calm, open honesty.

"It is always a wonder to meet you _, ion-nin_."

THE END

23 January 2018

 **Thank you for reading!** As always, an Afterword follows the fic which discusses the method behind the madness, plus a long, reasonably stand-alone preview of a work-in-progress that may one day be posted too. The contents will be as follows:

 **AFTERWORD**

 **I. On the Plot, and Themes of Returning and Parenting**

 **II. On Thranduil**

 **III. On Legolas**

 **IV. Preview: Walking Wounded**


	2. Afterword and Preview: Walking Wounded

**AFTERWORD**

 **I. On the Plot, and Themes of Returning and Parenting**

 **II. On Thranduil**

 **III. On Legolas**

 **IV. Preview: Walking Wounded**

* * *

 **I. On the Plot, and Themes of Returning and Parenting**

So… I've been away from fandom for six years, and _Lord of the Rings_ specifically for a decade. I've been so busy I didn't think I would ever be back - moved countries multiple times, started a family, etc. – but random things bring you back somehow, or you get a certain feeling you want to replicate, and here I am again with a new offering, and much uncertainty as to whether or not anyone will even bother to read or review or do any of the other new stuffs is up to these days (there are "Follows" and "Forums" now, or did I just never notice before...?). I even had to Google some canon terms and information, just to check myself.

What drew me back, I think, are the Thranduil and Legolas scenes of the _Hobbit_ films. Interactions that fans could only imagine in fanfiction before were suddenly more fleshed out on screen and readily imaginable in Peter Jackson's visualization of Tolkien's world. It stimulated my curiosity. At first I wanted to know more and read more, and then eventually I found my own inspirations, and my own motivations to create what I sought but could not exactly find.

I also decided to channel my own experiences in this piece, specifically (1) my apprehensions about returning; and (2) what I now know of children and parenting now that I am raising my own.

 **(1) I am a stranger coming home to this fandom** , ten years gone and not even completely sure of offering up more works here or just dropping this one off and skulking away again. This old-timer doesn't quite have the time she used to, plus I've lost e-mail, correspondence and various other things from lack of activity. It's odd how my last work for LOTR before this was "For Every Evil 3" which was about goodbyes, and my first one back is "A Stranger Comes Home" which is about returns. But of course RL (do people still say that?) creeps into writing inextricably, and all I can do is draw what I can from it and channel it into the work.

 **(2)** Speaking of Real Life… **I think fellow parents will understand what I mean here when I say you meet various iterations of your child again and again**. This is my new thing, the large significant thing that changed from when I was writing fanfiction before to my return now: parenthood. Kids change as they grow, and it is a lovely process watching someone bloom and thrive in the world. This little nugget of thought naturally crawled its way into the "A Stranger Comes Home" too.

* * *

 **II. On Thranduil**

Lee Pace is a scene-stealer, and while his and Peter Jackson's take on the Thranduil character is something I never quite imagined, I took to the version easily, and this is how I choose to imagine and expand on the Elvenking in _A Stranger Comes Home_.

I depicted him as kind of like, that horrible boss you end up being devoted to in the end, haha. He can be mercurial, he is definitely used to getting his way and detests defiance, he conceals his vulnerabilities, covets control, and he is always so sure of things. But he has great caring too, be it for family or kingdom – he just isn't equipped with the best way to convey it. He's a fine machine, like a purring sports car, perfect in every way except sometimes what you need is a trusty pick-up truck. There are just some things he cannot do. The history of his hard life has made him strong and formidable, almost god-like, except it also handicapped him from being able to show open compassion or generosity.

The one dent in this armor is his son, who is passionate, idealistic, just-as stubborn and generally unintimidated by him. The dynamic between them was fun to see on film, and just as fun to play with on "paper" here.

* * *

 **III. On Legolas**

I was intrigued by how Orlando Bloom played him in the _Hobbit_ films. He was much darker, more militant and formidable. In the LOTR trilogy there were some parts where he looked like a puppy (as best exemplified in that infamous _mumak_ scene in ROTK, for example, you see how he looks at the beast and kind of blinks before he makes a decision to move forward). I understand that this impression owes much to physicality - i.e., the actor's age rather than a characterization. This is unavoidable, and I am not saying the actor is any less of a Legolas or any less hot now that he is older (I prefer the older, actually!). But I guess what I'm saying is that I wanted to play with the idea that he was darker and hardier in Mirkwood before, but his time with the Fellowship has opened his mind and softened him. So... how would he return after that shift?

I wondered about that, especially say, when I think of such contrasting scenes as his arrest of the dwarves in _Desolation of Smaug_ vs. _Return of the King_ where he talks about 'dying side by side with a friend' with Gimli. His time away had softened the edges, and I wanted to see how he would be received at a home hardened by a lifetime of struggle.

The other part of _A Stranger Comes Home_ that I really enjoyed writing was describing Legolas as "singularly creative." The description came to me randomly, and I actually decided to build a story where this could be said because it was such a special characteristic.

Anyways, I hope the depictions are acceptable, and I hope you found the story a good read, one way or another. Thank you for your time, and as always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome!

* * *

 **IV. Next LOTR Project Preview: "Walking Wounded"**

May or may not be posted. More or less concluded already, a one-shot at around 6,000 words, but I am still contemplating its kind of jagged flow. I am not yet satisfied. At any rate, for the curious, here's a clip that can also somewhat stand alone -

 **Title: Walking Wounded**

 _Summary: Danger does not stop for grief or injury. There is no rest, no respite, no relief. On the road between Moria and Lothlorien, the Fellowship have no choice but to get up and move forward, even hurting and heartbroken._

"I hope you do not think me indifferent to what you suffer."

Aragorn's feet were inhumanly light, but the elf's ears were sharp to begin with and even more so at that moment, attuned and hyperaware of his surroundings. The Fellowship, after all, was still being chased and hunted. All his senses reached out broadly - a net cast wide - for signs of threat.

Legolas let the ranger come up beside him without bothering to move from his position. He was stooped over, one palm planted on his knee and the other clutching at his middle, trying to catch his breath. The rest of the company was trailing a minute or two behind.

For a moment he considered continuing with the ruse, but it was too trifling a thing to bother with, especially after all the greater things they've thus far suffered. After all they've lost…

"I thought I was being discreet."

"You are clever," Aragorn conceded with a sigh. "The excessive scouting, the distance you keep. It stood to reason you kept trying to be alone for… for your grief. But I realize now you must have been tending to your wounds, seeking particular herbs perhaps, or as now, bent over trying to breathe."

The elf had claimed enough rest and humor to ask, ruefully, "So what gave me away?"

"The smell," replied the _adan_ , "It is very distinct."

"Ah." Legolas' brows rose in realization, "That would do it."

He had used a salt wash to clean the wound, a salve of sap, spice and ground leaves and flowers as coagulant, willow bark for the pain, a bit of mint to ease the head and stomach from the willow, a leafy stimulant to chew on for alertness against the disarming comfort of the mint… There was an herb to counter another herb to counter one more that helps contain a wound, Legolas realized. Or maybe it was weakness from blood loss and the general weariness of overwork that was giving him such a macabre sense of humor. Either way… he should have known a healer of Aragorn's caliber, with experience in the treatment of soldiers and warriors, would recognize the iteration of smells anywhere.

"There are herbs on my person," Aragorn said, "they might be of some use to you."

"I've learned to travel with some myself," Legolas said, "As our warriors have been trained to. The forests are generous with things that help."

"Poison?" Aragorn inquired.

Legolas winced. "Enough to incapacitate, not to kill."

 _Yet_ , they both thought. Neither one voiced it.

"It is getting worse," Aragorn said quietly, conclusively. There was a storm brewing in his gray eyes.

 _But we cannot stop_ , came another unvoiced, shared thought.

"I swear on my name the injury does not interfere with my duties to the Ringbearer," Legolas said vehemently, straightening up to illustrate strength of will – if not necessarily body. He stifled a cough. "Otherwise I would have made it known."

"I expect nothing less of you."

Legolas nodded and glanced behind them. Elf and man stood at a descent from a small hill, their companions not yet within eye line but close behind.

"Do you trust me?" he asked the ranger suddenly.

Aragorn hesitated, which made the elf's lip turn up in a grin.

"Yes," the man replied heartily before Legolas could tease him. They were old friends, and trusting each other meant they had a host of memories doing something extreme or odd for the other at some point in their lives.

"Then trust my judgment," Legolas implored, seriously. "There is nothing further to be done with the wound that will not incapacitate me, and we do not have that luxury. We are barely ahead of our foes, Aragorn, their feet shake the very ground we stand upon, they are so close. But we are nearing our refuge. We must move forward and to move forward, we must let it be. I tended to it as best I could. I swear to you this body will hold."

Aragorn's stormy gaze bore into his. There was no decision to be made here, they both knew it. Only assurances. There was no way but forward and no time to waste.

"Lorien is at least a day away," Aragorn said quietly.

"It will hold," Legolas promised.

"But at what cost?" murmured Aragorn. Still, he set his jaws and nodded. In a firmer voice, he commanded – "Take no unnecessary excursions. I will watch you carefully. Stay in my sight. I beg you not to hesitate to speak to me of any further difficulty. Understand that I will interfere with you as I see fit, but know that when I do, it is only out of absolute necessity."

"Thank you, _mellon-nin_ ," Legolas said. He hesitated to add something else, glancing in the direction from which their fellows would soon emerge. Aragorn read clearly what he had in mind.

"I will speak of this to no one," he promised.

Legolas winced and rubbed the back of his neck in chagrin. "It is not from some vanity though when it comes to the dwarf I can confess to some. The halflings… have had quite a shock. I do not want them to have any further reason to fear for their safety. They must find me able."

Aragorn winced. There was little anyone could do to return the hobbits' carefree innocence after the fall of their beloved Gandalf, but he understood the elven warrior's compulsion to try.

Side by side, the elf and man watched as each of their remaining company – but six, now – trudged down from the hill in their direction.

Frodo led the way, pensive, burdened, somewhat detached from the others. Sam trailed after him with a soft clanking of pots and the padding of clumsy feet, never too far away. Behind him were a weary Merry supporting Pippin, who had his heart on his sleeve and grief marring his ever-expressive face. The dwarf came up behind the hobbits, eyes fiery red from tears and determination. The man from Gondor brought up the rear. Strangely, he looked extraordinarily strong and in his element – no stranger was he to danger and mortality – but his gaze was concerned for the young ones he had always seen as misplaced children.

"You have my trust and my silence," Aragorn promised Legolas, before any of the others could hear. He pressed a hand upon the elf's shoulder reassuringly, before joining their other companions.

TO BE CONTINUED (MAYBE)…


End file.
